


Goodbye Hello

by ashinan



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-10
Updated: 2012-05-10
Packaged: 2017-11-05 02:48:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/401617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashinan/pseuds/ashinan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s disoriented most of the time. He blames the drugs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Goodbye Hello

It hurts. There’s something off. Somewhere. Something dislodged, not moving. Copper. There’s a copper tang to the air, on the taste buds. Pain. So much pain. Flashing across the darkness like twinkling lights. Synapses still firing. Good. Breath flapping out, a high noise in the air, people, there are people, frantic words and frantic hands.  _Pain_. There was something that needed to be done. A push. There was someone that needed a push. Can’t think. Pain. Too much pain. Desperate words and desperate breathing and help. Can’t think past the pain. Help. Help.  _Help_.  

 

Lights flicker past and he groans, turning his head to the side. Blood sings in his ears, a mask covering his mouth and nose, hands on his chest and Christ, that hurts. He wants it off, can’t feel anything aside from that focused pinpoint. Someone is pressing something sharp and mean into his ribs, past the bones and into his lungs. But it’s sidelined by the need for him to remember. Remember. Something. The lights flicker, darken, flicker. He tries to focus.

“He’s regained consciousness,” someone says. Their voice  _clangs_  like symbols being bashed. He’s reminded suddenly of the symphony. A cellist.  _Clint_. The lights flash, white black whiteblack _whiteblacccck_ , and he can’t focus anymore. “Agent? Agent Coulson? Phil, can you hear me?”

He wants to answer, there are words on his tongue, ready and willing. But the lights flicker by like railroad tracks, clickity-clack, clickity-clack, and he can’t draw enough energy to say  _yes_.

“He’s spiking again!”

The railroad lights click-click-click and then he’s in a tunnel.  

 

“… _ke up_.”

There’s a struggle for it at first, the haze of sleep calling for him, whispering seductive promises against his mind. He almost falls back into it, just for a moment, but there’s something important he’s meant to be doing. Something that has purpose. A push. He remembers someone needing a push.

Opening his eyes takes a century, keeping them open an eternity. The space above him is a jumble of messy white lines that never really coalesce into anything resembling what he knows should be a ceiling. The walls aren’t much better. But there, just off to his left, are a pair of eyes. Well. An eye and an eyepatch.

He doesn’t bother trying to speak. Fury does it for him.

“Good to see you’re awake, Agent.”

His body begs for reprieve. Pain edges into awareness with a sharp lunge, digging into his ribs, puncturing his lungs and tearing away his consciousness. Fury sighs something out but it’s lost in the clamour of wind by his ears; he’s falling, falling, and there’s nothing to stop him this time.

 

The next time he wakes up it’s easier. But it’s also more painful. Immediately he’s besieged by an overwhelming central throb in his chest. His breath stutters and his eyes snap open, the light so bright that at first he thinks himself blind. But it passes, a thin jet of cool medication slipping into his arm, and he watches the ceiling solidify.

“Agent Coulson?”

He turns his head. Maria sits beside him, her hair loose in a bun. He smiles.

“Hill.” His voice cracks like brittle sandpaper, the words turning raspy and damaged. He coughs. His lungs protest, his chest protests,  _he_ protests. A straw is pressed against his lips and he swallows water gratefully, stopping himself from taking too much. His throat softens the words. “How long?”

Maria sighs, rubbing her hands together. “About two weeks. You were declared stable five days ago.”

A tickling in the back of his mind, something he should know, something he should remember. Right. “Did the push work?”

Her eyes snap up, meeting his. Thunder wars in her eyes. “Was it your idea or Fury’s?”

“What?” He’s getting tired again. Talking. Talking makes him so exhausted, like a newborn kit just learning the world. There’s pain, which he knows, and the push. What those mean, what they’re supposed to express, is beyond him at this point.

There’s something else though. Before Maria can answer, he says, “My cards.”

And then he’s back to falling through the stars.

 

He gets better. He can wake up now without having to fight it, the drugs slowly witling down to just enough to take away the pain. Regardless, his chest still wages war with him, a reminder that never leaves until he’s passing through that tunnel into sleep again. He’s in the ICU for another week before they state he’s fit to be moved. Not once do the Avengers come visit him. He wonders if that’s because they lost. Or if it’s because they won.

He’s disoriented most of the time. He blames the drugs.

Fury visits him the day he’s moved to a private room. He’s carrying with him a wrapped box, a present, which, if he was actually the type, would be sentimental. But Fury is anything but. Phil is immediately wary.

“Director,” he greets. Fury raises an eyebrow at him. He looks tired.

“You look like shit,” Fury says. Phil watches him. The present is dropped on his lap. “I may have ruined something of value of yours. I’m replacing it.”

“My cards,” he acknowledges. Fury sits down in the chair across from him. Phil’s fingers play over the edge of the wrapping paper. That nagging sense in the back of his mind returns. “Director, I haven’t been debriefed.”

“There’s a reason for that,” Fury points out. Phil sighs.

“My acknowledgement of that reason does not deter from the fact that I should have been debriefed within hours of my waking. I am the Avengers handler.”

Fury lifts a boot onto his bed. “You  _were_  the Avengers handler. Right now, you’re dead.”

The statement messes with the drugs in his head and the pain in his chest and he’s ripped the wrapping paper on his present. Truth is in what he feels, what he knows. Not what he’s told.

“True as that may be, I still feel –”

“You’ll be debriefed as soon as you can walk without vomiting, Agent,” Fury says, pinning him with a look. Phil contemplates fighting him on it, remembers his last experience arguing with Fury, and goes for broke.

“The fact remains, it was my plan. As it was my death that caused the Avengers to, what I’m assuming is, win, then it is my duty to be appraised of the situation so I can begin making plans on how to reconcile my relations with them,” he says. Fury laughs.

“I’ve missed you, Agent,” Fury says. It’s not reassuring. “All right, I’ll give you a sneak peek. They won. By the skin of their teeth, they won. Loki’s been dragged back to Asgard by his hair product totting brother, Stark has run away with Banner to play in his lab, and Rogers will probably be joining them soon. Natasha was sent off to Africa on a classified assignment.”

Fury doesn’t mention Clint. Something sticks, heavy, in his chest.  _Cellist_. “Agent Barton?”

Fury doesn’t say anything for a long moment, just watching him. The heaviness in his chest grows. Fury says, “Barton refuses to come down from his nest.” Phil feels something release in his chest, his heart monitor fluttering for a second. Fury’s lips quirk. “No one knows of your whereabouts, or your current ‘situation’. Though Natasha did break into the morgue with Barton’s help.”

“Of course she did,” Phil mutters, staring blankly at the far wall. He wonders. “Has either been approached by the resident therapist?”

“You think I wouldn’t try?” Fury says. He waves a hand. “Barton shot at her and Natasha almost took off a finger. Neither wants to talk about it.”

“That’s not healthy. They should have been required to go through all forms of medical procedures, including a psych evaluation, before returning to active duty. How did Agent Romanoff bypass this?” He already knows the answer. Fury’s eyebrow twitches up in disbelief.

“She’s Russian. I decided not to fuck with that.”

Phil leans back against the pillows, rubbing absently at his chest. The sting is coming back, little mosquito bites of pain that prickle his skin, and he’s suddenly exhausted. But Clint is all right. The Avengers are all right. He wants that debriefing.

“Sir, as I know you have the incident reports already, I would like to catch myself up on the past few weeks,” he says. Fury rolls his eye. “I also ask that you give me an updated roster on the Avengers psych evaluations. Barton and Natasha will both be given one or I’ll administer them myself.”

“You’re dead, Agent.”

Phil smiles. “That’s the magic of SHIELD, sir. No one stays dead for long.” 


End file.
